embrasse moi quand tu voudras
by AsWeAreNow
Summary: Sometimes, a bullet and a kiss are exactly the same. France is ready for both. Rated T for ceiling bashing. Oneshot, probably.


France was awake.

It was rather regrettable. All he could really think was that he should not have been awake ever again.

And yet here he was, lying in his bed.

The last thing he remembered was that Switzerland had pressed the barrel of a pistol to his head. He had no idea how he'd ended up back in his own room, but there was the ceiling, same as every other ceiling except for a slightly off-center ceiling fan.

France could not help but think that it was unfair, that he should have to awaken to this goddamn ceiling every day.

He closed his eyes for awhile.

It was terribly cold in his room. The window was open, inviting early winter as if it needed to come any sooner.

France was a bit of a romanticist. Usually, maybe, he would've stood up and stopped grumbling about his ceiling. Of course, not every day could be dedicated to warming glasses of brandy and staring at the Eiffel Tower, but why not? If not, the least he could do was get pissed drunk and hope the next time he awoke he'd remember nothing.

He could've enjoyed nature, or had a nice reflection while mulling over the best architecture in the world. That was what anyone else would've done, anyway. The tourists flocking Parisian streets, speaking languages from every nook and cranny of the world, were more than enough proof of that.

The problem was that France had done that for so _long_. It had always seemed like the sort of thing he'd do, really, and for a good while, it had fit. But now—

Now he didn't even long for Parisian streets, or nights crammed with truffles, alcohol, or gentle voices. Now he just wanted to sit and gripe at his ceiling about how much his ceiling sucked, like an old man griping at his wife after so many years spent together.

And maybe in another life, he could've had someone to gripe at.

France wanted, almost desperately, things he could not have. He believed in reincarnation, a second chance for a better life, less due to actual belief and more just for his peace of mind. He went to church. He took pills. He drank alcohol. He was a frequent participant in causal sex.

None of it ever helped.

_And what happens after they receive a better life?_

France was not the sort of person to believe he was bad. He wasn't selfish, or at least he tried not to be (every nation had a guaranteed bit of selfishness— it was just the way they were).

But maybe, just maybe, he wanted to be selfish. Maybe he wanted to believe that, after good people received better lives, they kept on living. Somewhere else, maybe. He didn't know where, and frankly he didn't care. He just didn't want to believe that everyone he'd cared about were really gone.

(Linebreak.)

France closed his eyes. He had not previously been staring at his goddamned, installed-by-a-piece-of-shit, ugly ceiling. He'd been sitting at a cafe, by himself, drinking alcohol because that was obviously what cafes were for.

_The warmth of the sun washed over him, and for just awhile, he stared at the back of his eyelids and saw her again. Warm, earthy colours flocking around the two of them, bathing them in red and gold and brown. Beautiful days in better places._

_She looked the same as the last time he'd seen her. France embraced her, tears crowding his eyes. He tried to speak, but words failed him. He was so happy, finally. 'Happy' was an elementary word; it was simple. Ever the dramatic, he tried to think of another word for it._

_There was nothing else. And, he figured, there was no need for larger words if the emotion consumed his entire being. He didn't even feel like himself anymore. France didn't think he'd ever been so happy._

_The last time he'd seen her, he'd been in pain. She'd been stressed. They'd loved each other, sure, but the circumstances weren't ideal._

_They could finally be happy. Wasn't this what he'd known all along? That he would, one day, get to be happy with her?_

_France held her. God, he was never going to let go. He'd never make that mistake again. He started crying._

_He kept his eyes closed. He never wanted this to end, and so the tears just slipped through the cracks. She wiggled out of his arms, and for a moment France feared that she was gone, but he still didn't open his eyes. If he didn't open his eyes, it couldn't be real._

_He felt one of her hands, so, so warm, cup his face. The other reached down, intertwining their fingers. He felt her lean in, felt her hair tickle his neck._

_And for just a moment, he could feel her, so, so close to him. _

He could just imagine the bullet going through his head, akin to relief. But it hadn't. Instead, the gun had been taken away— _she'd been taken away again_—

It was cold. France gasped, startled out of his reverie. A cloud had covered the sun, cramming shadow into an otherwise perfect mold.

He looked around, disappointed. He was at the cafe. There was an empty glass in his hand.

He paid for his drink and started walking away, as quickly as possible.

(Linebreak.)

He had a new theory; a new belief.

France arrived at his apartment. He unlocked the door and stepped inside, numbly. France was so, so glad to have seen her again. He wasn't sure for how long, but every second they'd spent together truly was God-sent.

France didn't know what to do after the cafe. He sat in the dining room, but he wasn't hungry. He sat in the living room. He didn't read. He just sat.

France could feel her there. He sat for awhile, trying to think of something to say. Anything at all.

"I'm so tired."

He was ready. He was ready for beautiful days in better places, but most of all, he was ready to see her again.

"Kiss me, darling. Whenever you want."

For just a moment, he imagined her lips against his temple, akin to relief_._

**Please listen to 'Je te laisserai des mots' by Patrick Watson. The song is absolutely stunning.**

**A review would be wonderful. Please stay safe and keep at a decent temperature. Stay hydrated as well. Cheers, everyone.**


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